Memorial
by WordStained
Summary: Jason sits alone in front of an unkempt grave stone, just talking. T for some minor language use.


Summary: Jason sits alone in front of an unkempt grave stone, just talking. T for some minor language use.

Memorial

He didn't know what brought him back there, year after year. He told himself time and time again that it didn't mean anything, that being there wouldn't change anything that happened. But that hardly mattered. Every year, he found himself there, staring down at the moss-and-grass-covered grave stone, name hardly legible through the thick overgrowth. Maybe he intended to stay just for a moment, remember and move on, but every single time, he found himself sinking to the ground, sitting with his arms on his knees like a child.

He felt like a child, too, like he was back in that shitty apartment, sitting next to his passed out mother, saying the things he would never bother with when she was awake, talking simply because she couldn't hear what he died to tell her. It was exactly like that, he knew. She was still there – more or less, anyway – physically, but she couldn't hear and she probably wouldn't be all that interested if she could.

The words just came; he couldn't stop them. "I started smoking again," he told her for no particular reason. "I know I said I would stop last year, and the year before that, and the year before that... I guess I don't have as much willpower as I thought.

"You remember that one time you caught me with a cigarette? I didn't have a lighter, wasn't even thinking about smoking it; I was gonna throw it away. I only had it that day because one of the older boys gave it to me. How old was I? Ten? You were sober that day. You saw me with it on the sidewalk and slapped my hand. 'Damn it, Jason! How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from that shit?' Later, you told me that was for the neighbor's, not me. I bet if you saw me smoking now, and you were sober enough to care, you'd just roll your eyes and call me a dumb ass." He looked down for a moment.

"Honestly, I think you were scared, though, that day. Dad smoked, didn't he? Yeah, I think I remember that, from when I was real little. It always smelled like smoke and sour beer or stale booze or whatever the hell he was drinking at the time. You didn't want me to be like him. You didn't want me to end up like you. Well, I'm not... I'm worse." He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

"I really tried to turn my life around, you know, after you died. Bruce... he took good care of me – until he didn't – he tried to teach me how to be good. And I thought I was... Then I died." His hands clenched painfully around the arm they rested on.

"You know how people are supposed to see a light when they die? Or, like, the faces of loved ones they lost? That's a thing, isn't it? Well, I guess I wasn't good enough to get anything at all. All I remember is cold, dark, and numb. Then I opened my eyes, and it was still cold and dark, only then I was in pain. But I already told you all of this before, didn't I?"

"I know you won't remember this because you were passed out, but there was one time when I beat up this asshole who was trying to steal my groceries on the way home. I... That's around the time when I started wondering if I was bad. And I asked you... 'Mom, am I a bad person?' I used to imagine that, if you were awake and not high, you would have smiled and run a hand through my hair and say, 'No, Jason, you are _not_ a bad person. You're a person in a bad situation with a good heart, and, no matter what you do, that's all that matters.'" He chuckled darkly and without humor. "Yeah, I know, hope in one hand, shit in the other," he said with a sigh, closing his eyes once more.

"But I know the answer to that question now. Sort of. I... I'm not a good person, but that doesn't mean I have to be a bad person."

Jason sat the there for a long moment in silence, the only sound was his breathing and the rustle of leaves on the nearby trees in the light wind. Finally, he decided he had said all he had to say and rose to his feet. He didn't bother cleaning the grave stone off; no one was going to come looking for her. "Happy birthday, Mom." And Jason Todd, shoulders hunched, hands deep in the pockets of his tattered jacket, face a stony mask, turned his back and walked away without a backwards glance.

* * *

A/N: This was inspired by a page of Red Hood and the Outlaws that I saw on Tumblr - I think it was from Zero Year - where Jason was talking to his unconscious mother, which is where some of the dialogue comes from.


End file.
